


Return to Owner

by Moiraine



Series: My Little Fenris [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Collars, Depression, F/M, Genital Torture, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychological Torture, Rape Recovery, Rescue, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:44:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moiraine/pseuds/Moiraine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate ending to the previous entry in this series.  The fight against Danarius does not go well, and Fenris gives himself back into the hands of his former master in order to save Hawke's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an alternate ending to My Little One, and fulfills two kmeme prompts: [ here ](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/3197.html?thread=5657213#t5657213) and [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/3197.html?thread=5575293#t5575293).
> 
> In this story, Hawke, Fenris and the others do not defeat Danarius. Instead, Fenris chooses to give himself back to Danarius, the man who treated him like a pet, in order to save their lives.
> 
> Danarius is not pleased with his pet's actions and seeks to correct him.

“Ah, my little Fenris. Predictable as always.”

Fenris watched Danarius come down the stairs in shock. No. No! This wasn’t happening, not again. He couldn’t…he couldn’t let this be a repeat of Seheron. He pushed away the instinctive urge to cower and obey that even after all this time was _still there_.

“I’m sorry it came to this, Leto.”

Looking away, he focused on Varania, letting his rage toward her help burn the desire to kneel and beg away. “You led him here.”

“Now, now, Fenris. Don’t blame your sister. She did what any good Imperial citizen should.” How familiar was that voice, that tone that scolded him so gently, as if he were too stupid to understand the people and situations around him?

No, he would _not_ let this happen again. He would not go back to being a thing, a possession. He would die first. And he would take Danarius with him.

“I never wanted these filthy markings, Danarius! But I won’t let you kill me to get them.”

Danarius laughed, and Fenris shuddered at the sound. How many times had he heard that, curled at his master’s feet, kneeling by his side, laying on his back while Danarius infected tortured both physical and mental? “Oh, how little you know, my pet.”

He turned his attention to Nerys. “And this is your new mistress, then? The Champion of Kirkwall? Quite lovely.”

Nerys frowned, her brows pulling together. “Fenris doesn’t belong to anyone.”

“Do I detect a note of jealousy?” Danarius smirked and chuckled. “It’s not surprising. The lad is rather skilled, isn’t he?”

_No!_ The inflection on the words was disgusting, but he was not going to let the magister spill his secrets here, in front of the few people who respected him and the woman he—

No.

“Shut your mouth, Danarius!”

Danarius glared, breathing out an angry huff of air. “The word is ‘master.’”

In years past, that tone would have heralded agony beyond measuring, but Fenris was no longer afraid of it. He saw the soldiers moving down to surround their master and sensed Nerys and the others freeing their weapons. Today, one way or another, he would end this.

He surged forward, even as Danarius threw his magic up in a glittering shield around himself. Behind him, he could hear Nerys, Isabela and Varric join in the fray, but he pushed the distraction from his mind as he engaged the first slavers to rush him.

The fight dragged on, far too long, and Fenris was keenly aware of the fact that they had no mages to fight with them. Though he didn’t like them, he knew Anders’s healing and Merrill’s Dalish magic oft aided them greatly in battle, and the more they struggled against Danarius’s forces, the more keenly he felt their absence. Now, there were no sudden surges of magic to refresh them and heal wounds, no destructive elemental magic to weaken their opponents so that they could be easily cut down by blade and bow.

And Danarius did not fight fair, not that Fenris expected him to. Along with the armed guards he’d brought, he also brought a couple of apprentices—not very talented mages, but with enough ability to summon shades while Danarius himself called forth demons of rage. Combined, it took a significant toll on them. Even so, Fenris thought they could still win, that they still had a chance.

It wasn’t until he’d just slain a rage demon that he heard the scream. High and piercing, it cut through his battle focused mind like a hot knife through butter, and he turned to find its source as the remains of the demon pooled in a puddle of ash and sulfur at his feet.

Danarius had descended the stairs, dropping his protective barrier. Blood ran freely from cuts on his arms, and at his feet was Nerys, writhing in the grip of a blood magic spell. A strong leap, perhaps two and his greatsword could be slicing through Danarius’s skinny ribcage. He just needed time, a distraction….

Fenris glanced up quickly, seeking his allies. Varric was bleeding profusely from a head wound, leaning heavily against a table. But Bianca was still held firmly in his grip, the crossbow trained on an archer who had an arrow nocked in his direction. Isabela was currently in a standoff against another slaver, but she favored her right leg and her left arm hung uselessly at her side, her tunic now more red than white. As for Danarius’s men…. There were too many. He might make it to Danarius, but not before one least one of them was taken down.

The realization hit him and he felt his gut clench and churn. There was still a slim chance—a very slim chance—that they could come through, but he knew they wouldn’t all survive it. And with Nerys already in his grip, Fenris seriously doubted that he could kill the magister before Danarius killed her.

“A simple choice, my pet,” Danarius said softly, malice coating every word. “Your life for hers. You come with me, willingly, and I shall spare her and the others.”

For a moment, Fenris didn’t move, didn’t say anything. Then Danarius flexed his hand and Nerys cried out again. Fenris closed his eyes, as if that could block out the sound and his decision was made. His freedom wasn’t worth her life. _He_ wasn’t worth her life. He would go and she would live, and finally be free of this strange hold they had on each other.

His sword lowered, the tip touching the stained floorboards and it was jerked out of his hands. Fenris opened his eyes again to see his master step over Nerys. “Wise decision,” he murmured. “Come, my pet.”

Danarius led them out of the Hanged Man, Varania a step behind him, the guards forming a tight ring around them as a precaution. Fenris followed silently, head bowed, ignoring the disbelieving cries of Varric and Isabela behind him. They wouldn’t follow though, they weren’t stupid. Their priority would be Nerys, and getting her to Anders before it was too late.

The trip to Danarius’s lavish ship was silent and swift. Once aboard, Danarius snapped orders to the captain, who in turn snapped them to his crew. The tide was with them, and within minutes, the crew was setting the rigging and easing out of the harbor. Fenris was roughly pushed below decks after Danarius went down, stripped of his armor piece by piece, until he was clad only in his leather breeches and tunic. These, too, the guards pulled that, and Fenris shed the last of his clothing.

It occurred to him that in these tight confines, he could probably kill all of the guards easily. But he doubted he could take an entire ship by himself, so that only left throwing himself overboard. And then what? Even if he didn’t drown, Danarius would never stop. He’d known that, always known that. He’d known Danarius would never let him be, not until Fenris was dead or his worth stripped from his skin. For a little while, he’d had freedom—beautiful and heady and terrifying—and for an even briefer time, he’d had love.

A lump stuck in his throat. He loved Nerys, he had for years, and he’d never told her, not even during the one fateful night they’d shared. He’d wanted to, felt the words on the tip of his tongue, yearning to spill forth countless times. But each time, fear would stop him, prevent him for taking that last step. And now it was too late, and the regret was bitter and heavy.

Now, at least, she was free. And she would live. He could give her that much. She’d been the best part of his last seven years of freedom, but that was over with now. Fenris carefully, reverently, tucked away his memories of her, laying them next to the dreams that would never be realized—like _home_ and _peace_ —and put them to rest. Like so many other things, like a sense of self and worth, he walled them away, keeping them safe from the stain of what he really was. And when the guards shoved him back into the hallway and into Danarius’s large cabin, he was his master’s pet once more.


	2. Chapter 2

Danarius was waiting, and the magister waved the guards away as Fenris was escorted in. Almost as soon as the door thudded shut, Danarius’s hand crashed into the side of Fenris’s face. Fenris stumbled a few steps to the side, looking at Danarius in shock. Danarius almost never hit him, not with his hands. No, he preferred to pinch and pull and rake with too sharp nails, to strike with canes and whips instead of his hands.

“On your knees!” Danarius snarled, and Fenris obeyed without thought, sinking down to the smooth floorboards. A second blow, this time with fingernails catching the skin of his face and tearing open gouges. They burned and stung, warm blood trickled down his face.

“How dare you?!” The words were hissed, filled with rage, as several more blows landed. Fenris’s lip split and he bit the inside of his cheek, tasting the coppery tang of blood as it filled his mouth. His face ached and he could feel his mouth and eyes beginning to swell. But each time he was knocked to the side under the force of the blows, he sat back up on his heels, knowing it would be worse if he didn’t. The whole time, Fenris kept his gaze trained forward, ignoring the tiny flutter of fear. He’d never seen Danarius this enraged, and he wondered if the magister might not kill him in his fury.

In a way that should have disturbed him, the thought was perversely comforting.

A hand grasped him under the chin, bending his neck back and forcing him to look up. “Look at your master when he speaks to you! Do you have any idea what you’ve cost me, little wolf? Coin and men in quantities you can’t even begin to imagine. And you will repay me for them, pet, and when I am done, you will wish you’d never thought to run from me in the first place.”

The hand moved from his chin to his hair, gripping tightly and pulling Fenris up off his knees into a sort of half crouch. Danarius, with a surprising strength, yanked him around the side of the bed and threw him onto it.

Fenris had always had a good memory, and no matter how much he wished it was otherwise, he’d not forgotten what was expected of him here. There was no way to stop it, no way to prevent this abuse and degradation, so he gave into it. He tucked his knees under him, spreading them at the same time he lowered his head and raised his ass. And he waited.

Danarius moved about the cabin, and he heard the lid of a trunk thrown open. There was a rummaging noise, the click of metal and glass. Then a hand was in his hair again, pulling him up. His master stood in front of him, a collar in his hands. Fenris’s eyes widened as he took it in. It was not the simple leather and silver collar he’d worn in Minrathous. No, this was much bigger, wicked looking, high enough that he wondered if it would even fit his neck. It was all hard black leather and gleaming steel, three buckles affixed to the back to close it.

Danarius slid it around his neck, fitting it into place, pulling to buckles tight enough that his breath now rasped in his throat. The hard edges of the collar pressed up and under his jaw and dug into his collarbones, holding his head straight. He couldn’t move with it on, couldn’t turn his head or bend his neck. He could barely swallow. From a pocket, Danarius produced three tiny locks, and threaded each one through a buckle. His master fiddled a bit more, doing something Fenris could not see, though his marks pulsed faintly in response to some magic used. Then his head was pressed back down into the mattress and Danarius walked around the bed behind him.

There was the sound of cloth being removed and falling to the floor, then the quiet pop of a cork, the sound of something liquid being smoothed over flesh. Then the mattress dipped as Danarius knelt on the bed between Fenris’s parted legs, his boney hands gripping his hips. For a moment, Fenris felt the tip of Danarius’s cock against his entrance. And then his master thrust home.

It had been too long, far too long, and Fenris had not been prepared at all, the oil Danarius used only enough to protect himself. Fenris felt himself tear and the pain was incredible, running up his spine like shards of broken glass. A scream bubbled up in his throat and he nearly bit his tongue off trying to keep it from breaking free.

But Danarius was having none of that. He let go of Fenris’s hip with one hand and snaked it under Fenris’s body. Ignoring his soft cock, his master closed a fist around his balls and _squeezed_. “Scream for me, pet,” Danarius grated. “Howl. I want to _hear_ how sorry you are for all the trouble you caused me.”

The pain was indescribable and unbearable and Fenris screamed. With each thrust, each squeeze, he screamed himself more and more hoarse as Danarius raped him. There was no point in holding back, in trying to censor himself. His master wanted to hear him suffer, and what did fighting it matter when he could only lose? He’d tried resistance before—his entire life on the run was proof of that, and what did it matter? In the end, he still ended up on his knees beneath his master. What had any of it been for?

His master came with a triumphant cry and then collapsed over Fenris’s back while Fenris panted and wept beneath him, his body trembling. Once Danarius had gotten his breath back, he pulled out of Fenris with an obscene sucking sound. Something warm and wet slipped from Fenris to sluggishly trickle down his thigh. But he stayed exactly where he was. His master hadn’t told him to move.

Once more Danarius stood in front of him and pulled him by his hair. Fenris caught a quick glimpse of come and blood glistening on the magister’s softening cock before he was dumped on the floor. There was the clink of heavy chain and then Danarius was attaching a chain to the front of Fenris’s collar. In turn, the chain ran through a hole drilled in the thick frame of the bed and was welded shut. It was short, barely more than a foot long. Fenris couldn’t even kneel or sit up straight with it on, let alone stand.

Danarius kicked him once, then moved away, shrugging back into his robes and leaving the room. Fenris curled up on the floor on his side, every inch him aching, hoping that maybe the ship would sink before they got back to Tevinter. Chained to the ship, he would drown, and it would be a sweet release.

In the morning, Danarius healed him just enough to prevent infection. Every ounce of the agony was left as a reminder of his place. Then he was let off the chain to relieve himself, nearly whimpering the whole time, before it was replaced and a pair of cuffs added around his wrists so his arms could be secured behind his back. That made it impossible for him to find any comfortable way for him to kneel or lay. Fenris was given food at some point during the day. Or rather he was fed, two small bowls—one with water and one with gruel—placed on the floor in front of him, and he was forced to eat from them like a dog.

~*~

Danarius returned that night and seated himself on the edge of the bed, watching Fenris twitch at his feet. “You look so good like this, my little one,” he murmured. “This is where you belong. You have no idea how relieved I am that I finally have you back.” Reaching out with a foot, Danarius nudged Fenris so that he turned awkwardly onto his side, looking up at his master.

“Are you sorry for all the trouble you’ve caused, my little wolf? Are you sorry you behaved so badly?”

Fenris closed his eyes, blotting out the sight of the hateful man looking down at him, and nodded as best he could.

“Speak, Fenris. Tell me. And look at me when you do so.”

Fenris opened his eyes reluctantly. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing come. Swallowing, licking his lips, he tried again. “I…I’m s-sorry, Master,” he said hoarsely.

“What are you sorry for, my pet?” Danarius prompted in almost a sing-song voice.

Anders had asked him once if he’d ever thought about killing himself to escape slavery. Before, he hadn’t. Not even when things were at their worst, it simply hadn’t been an option. But now, knowing what he’d left behind and that _this_ would await him every day for the rest of his life…. If someone placed a blade in his hand, he would cut his own throat.

“I’m sorry I ran, Master. I’m sorry I disobeyed you and caused you so much trouble. I’m sorry I was a…a b-bad pet.”

“I believe you, Fenris, and accept your apology. But unfortunately, that’s not enough. I know how sorry you are, pet, but you still have to be punished. Don’t you?” There was a pause in which Fenris didn’t reply. Danarius’s gray eyes narrowed and his voice was much harder when he asked again. “Don’t you?”

“Yes, Master,” he said quietly.

“Then beg for it.”

Fenris sucked in a shocked breath. He couldn’t…no. There was no way he could do what Danarius commanded. That was too much to bear, even for him.

At the sign of his defiance, Danarius lifted a slippered foot and placed it on the soft flesh of Fenris’s groin. Fenris whined, but Danarius was unmoved as he pressed down, crushing Fenris’s genitals between the leather sole of his slipper and Fenris’s own body. Fenris screamed, short and high and sharp and then the words were tumbling out of his mouth.

“ _Please! Please, punish me, Master! Just—please!_ ” He couldn’t get out more than that, couldn’t think, couldn’t articulate the words to get Danarius to stop. He just wanted his master to move his foot, to stop the pain that seemed to echo throughout every nerve in his body. If only Danarius would stop, then he could use more eloquence, convince him of his sincerity, prove—

The foot moved and Fenris drew in a ragged, sobbing breath, unable to think of anything except the relief that came. His groin still pulsed with pain, but it wasn’t quite so overwhelming now. He’d be better in a few minutes, and maybe Danarius had filled enough of his sadistic desires that this could stop and they could go back to the way it was long ago, before Fenris had disobeyed and chased after the foolish illusion of freedom.

“As you wish, my pet.” The words were barely spoken before Fenris felt a tell-tale tingle over his markings, followed by an agonizing burning. He screamed again, jerking, back bowing, the chain and collar pulling on his neck as his head drummed against the floor. The pain went on and on and _on_ , unending waves of fire coursing over every limb and muscle. Fenris could barely draw breath between the screams, and after Maker knew how long, he felt something give in his throat, his screams suddenly dropping in volume and taking on a harsh, scratchy tone.

After what seemed like hours, Danarius finally stopped. Fenris lay upon the floor, arms trapped beneath him, chest heaving for breath, face damp with sweat and tears. As he struggled to gather himself, to retain some shred of dignity—though how much he could have when he was on the floor, chained, bound and a collared, weeping from torture, he didn’t know—a tentative knock sounded from the door.

“Yes?” Danarius called and the door cracked open.

From his position, Fenris could see Varania stick her head in. “W-We heard the screams,” she said. “I wanted to make sure….” She saw Fenris then, and her hands flew to her mouth, muffling her cry.

“Everything is fine.” Danarius rose smoothly and stepped over Fenris. “I’m just taking care of a disobedient pet. There’s nothing to worry about it. Now, why don’t you go and study some of those books I left you? You’ll need to apply yourself fully if you intend to be my apprentice.”

Alone again, Danarius looked down at his pet, lips pursed in thought. Finally, he reached down and removed the chain, drawing Fenris up and over the side of the bed. The magister’s soft hands caressed Fenris’s buttocks, slipping between the globes of his ass to play with his entrance. Fenris whimpered, pushing into the bed to escape the fingers—even though he knew he would be punished for it—and then pushed back as even the relative softness of the bedding pressed too heavily against his abused cock and testicles.

The magister grunted, displeased, and pushed Fenris back into the bed. “Stay.” The sound of the trunk opening and closing came, and Fenris tensed, waiting. There was the whisper of leather and he flinched as Danarius cracked the whip in the air. A few more snaps and Fenris buried his face into the bedding, smelling his master as he braced himself.

Fenris had been whipped before, and at Danarius’s own hands. But it had been a long time ago, and he’d forgotten just _how_ sharp the sting of it was. Lines of fire crisscrossed over his ass and the back of his thighs, and he jerked with each stroke. Occasional lashes caught his hands, still bound at the small of his back. Whippings had also never gone on this long before, passing the point of mere pain until Fenris felt the skin of the welts break and blood run down his legs. _Then_ Danarius stopped, slid his robes off and stepped up behind Fenris. Sharp nails raked over the open wounds, drawing more gasps of pain from Fenris, and Danarius laughed softly.

There was the soft clink of glass, the sound of a cork popping free as his master once again attended to himself and leaving Fenris completely unprepared. Again the searing, tearing pain and this time Fenris didn’t even try to hold back his cries. Danarius murmured as he thrust in and out, over and over, slower tonight, drawing out the experience. Fenris _thought_ it might have been praise, but he neither attempted to make sense of it nor wanted to.

By the time he was done, filling Fenris with the warmth of his seed, Fenris lay completely pliant underneath him, unable to even think about offering any resistance. Danarius stroked his hair, his shoulders, his arms and his sides. “Good boy,” he whispered against the back of Fenris’s neck as he laid a soft kiss there. “This is all for you, you’ll see. You’ll thank me when we’re home and you’re back where you belong.”

Their positions, Danarius’s murmurs and touches were a mockery of what Fenris now knew was real affection. He should protest, do something to show that he knew better, but he didn’t. Caring—remembering—was too much effort, and it only made everything hurt more. It was better to be numb inside, easier to pretend he’d never known better. So he blinked dry eyes and said nothing, not when Danarius pulled away, not when he was rechained on the floor, and not when the lamps were doused, leaving him in the dark with only the pain of his wounds and the sound of his master breathing as he slept in his ears.

Once, during the night, a single hysterical giggle escaped Fenris. He’d been free for nearly ten years, yet in less than two days he’d been reduced to this. Maybe this was where he belonged after all.

~*~

The next day passed much as the previous one had. Fenris was healed just enough to prevent any permanent injury, allowed up to attend to only the most basic necessities, and spent the rest of the day on the floor. By now, everything hurt. When Danarius left the cabin, he tried stretching on the floor to relieve the pain, but his effort produced minimal results at best.

Again, Danarius took him to his bed that night, this time freeing his arms and laying him on his back. Fenris folded his legs back and lifted them when he was bid to, his master placing his arms under his knees and once again securing the cuffs so that Fenris could not lower his legs, could not hide himself from his master’s view. Unable to move his head, Danarius tucked a pillow under his head so that he was propped up enough to see everything that he was doing to him.

Unlike the other nights, however, this time when Danarius took up the oil and coated his fingers with it, he touched them gently to the abused muscle of Fenris’s entrance. The magister worked him open slowly, and even though it hurt, it was nothing like it had been. Fenris lay quietly, hoping that maybe the worst of his master’s ire was now spent.

But after several minutes, Danarius withdrew his hand, frowning. He trailed his fingers up, over his pet’s hairless sac and touching the soft cock between Fenris’s legs. “I cannot help but notice, my pet, that you seem to be experiencing some difficulty. I wonder why that is.”

When his stroking fingers produced no response, Danarius frowned again. “Perhaps I was more right that I suspected. Did you trade your master in for a mistress, pet? Do I no longer please you?

“Did you fuck her, my little one? Did you fuck that sweet little cunt of hers? How was it? Did you let her ride you? Or did you forget what you were and lay her under you? Like you were worthy of being a person.” Fenris shook his head, or tried to, the collar preventing almost all of the movement. He didn’t want to think about that. Those memories were not for Danarius, _never_ for him.

“Did you spill yourself inside her, Fenris? Did you lap your seed from her dripping pussy afterward? Or did you fuck her face, making her swallow around you like you do so prettily for me? She had pretty little cocksucker lips, if I recall correctly, almost as nice as yours. You’d never had a mouth on your cock before, my little wolf. Believe me, I know. How did it feel, all that tight, wet, sucking heat?”

Fenris groaned in protest, feeling his cock harden slightly, the memories of that night enough to elicit a reaction even now, even here.

“Oh, how you resist and struggle so sweetly, my pet. You _did_ enjoy yourself and now that little whore’s gone and ruined you for me. Well, we’re just going to have to fix that.”

Smiling cruelly, Danarius placed his fingertips on the lyrium markings that ran low on Fenris’s belly. Warmth began to flow through them, tingling pleasure spreading down and out. Fenris let out a protesting sound. Danarius had never done this before. He’d never even known it was possible. By the time the magister stopped, Fenris was fully hard, his cock throbbing, aching and leaking for release. Fenris whimpered pathetically, crushed by the knowledge that not even this was within his control anymore.

Danarius smiled, and drew something from a pocket. For a moment, Fenris couldn’t place the piece of fluttering red silk. And then his eyes widened as he realized what it was. The thin belt from Nerys’s dressing robe, the one he’d taken from her the night he fled and had worn around his wrist ever since. It was a bit worn now, stained through time and wear. But it was good silk, and it had kept its strength.

His master fondled it. “I can think of a far better use for this than as some meaningless bauble,” he said and bent forward. Fenris felt his master begin to wind the belt around the base of his cock and then around his balls, drawing the length of silk snug and constricting the flow of blood to Fenris’s genitals. _No, no, please no_ , he begged silently in his mind. _Don’t do this, don’t take this memory from me._

But he did not speak and Danarius did not hear. Finally, Danarius tied the silk off and stepped back to admire his handy work. It hurt and ached, but now Fenris couldn’t come, nor could his erection abate. “You will not come, my little one,” Danarius said. “Not until your cock only rises for me again. And if that’s never, then so be it. The choice is yours. I told you, I would be the only one who ever sees you like this. But you had to go and disobey me and this is your reward. I hope you like it.”

When Danarius covered Fenris’s body with his own and slipped inside, he carded his hands through snow white locks and told Fenris how beautiful he was like this. How perfect he was and how he was only for him. When he came, it was with Fenris’s name on his lips. Sated, he leaned back, but didn’t pull free of Fenris’s body. Instead he played his fingers over the hard cock, the balls drawn tight. Fenris flexed his hips, wanting to get away from the touch, wanting more of it, but most of all just wanting it to end.

“I had thought,” Danarius mused, flicking Fenris’s cock and watching it bounce, smiling at the hiss it produced from the man under him, “to strip you of your memories when we got back to Minrathous. It would mean retraining you all over again, but it would eliminate any troublesome rebellion issues that might still linger. Now, however, I question the wisdom of that course. If you have your memories, you can remember how futile all of this was. What do you think, pet? Which do you think is the best course? Be honest.”

Fenris knew what he wanted. Oblivion was the closest he would get to death and he longed for it, even if it meant losing his memories of Nerys. He didn’t deserve them anyway. Perhaps his master might take this little bit of pity on him.

“Please, Master,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice still broken from the day before. “Take them, take my memories away. I don’t want to remember.”

Danarius nodded thoughtfully, bending forward to brush Fenris’s ear with his lips.

“No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a quick FYI, not that anyone really wants to know, some of what Danarius does/uses is based on actual medieval torture devices.


	3. Chapter 3

Whenever Danarius took him over the next several days, it wasn’t without first stimulating Fenris through the lyrium markings and binding him with the length of red silk. Fenris grew very familiar with the sensation of having his cock and balls bound when they were aching for release. It was a torment to feel them hanging heavy between his legs while Danarius thrust into him from behind or while on his knees with his master’s cock down his throat.

He knew how to bring an end to this particular suffering. All he had to do was give in, force himself back into the mindset of Danarius’s _willing_ pet, and he’d be granted release. But the longer the torture went on, the less he wanted that end. He began to look forward to Danarius taking the belt out. That Danarius felt he had to use it meant that he couldn’t control Fenris’s will in this one little area. He could compel arousal, force Fenris’s erection or even orgasm is he chose, but he couldn’t force Fenris to do it himself. There was a slight difference in that that resulted in a thrill every time Danarius brought out the silk.

The agony of denial was also a flush of victory.

Danarius was right. Nerys _had_ ruined him.

The magister was frustrated with his behavior, and took it out on him in petty ways—denying him meals, gagging him and leaving him for a whole day with nothing to drink, coming over him and not allowing him to clean himself—and in not so petty ways—whipping him, shortening the chain so that his face was mere inches from the floor, binding his arms so that it put stress on his shoulders, and finally binding his genitals and leaving him like that so long that he needed healing after.

He was like that one afternoon—at least he thought it was afternoon—when he heard some shouting and felt the ship change direction hard. The thud of running footsteps clambering over the decks drifted down to him, providing a slight distraction from the agony of his situation. It wasn’t until Danarius came slamming back into the cabin, retrieving several items and his staff, that Fenris realized what the situation was, what the shouts from the crew meant.

Raiders.

Fenris smiled around the gag, entertaining pleasant dreams of Danarius being cut down on deck and then himself when he was discovered. It was unlikely. Having a magister on board significantly shifted the favor to Danarius’s vessel, but it was a welcome thought nonetheless.

The warrior inside him listened to the preparations, muffled though they were, planning out how he’d defend against a vessel trying to board them. Finally, the sounds took on a more frantic pace, and he heard the first sounds of battle. Slight knocking sounds—arrows thunking into the ship—cries of pain—arrows thunking into people—and the crackle of lightning and fire—Danarius. Shortly thereafter came the sounds of blades clashing, and the ship shuddered as the raiders secured lines. So Danarius hadn’t been enough to keep the other vessel at bay. Good.

The fight raged for a while before finally beginning to die down. Fenris felt no rocking of the ship from lines being cut—something the raiders would do if they were losing—and a little bit of hope flared. There were cries for mercy that were abruptly cut off, and the hope flared brighter. The raiders were giving no mercy, which meant they weren’t taking prisoners.

_Good._

Eventually there came the sounds of boots in the hallway, doors opening and closing. The handle of Danarius’s cabin rattled, but it was locked. Something slammed against the door once, and then twice, the lock snapping and the door flying open.

“ _Fenris_!”

No!  _No!_ Not her, not now! Not after this! He couldn’t…couldn’t let her see him like this, couldn’t bear to be seen like this. Not by _her_.

Panic flooded through Fenris and he pulled back, choked on the collar and fell back against the floor gasping around his gag. Nerys dashed forward, dropping to her knees beside him and he turned away desperately, hiding what he could of himself from her.

“Oh, Fenris, no! It’s me! It’s _me_! Please stop fighting! I’m not going to hurt you! Fenris, please!” she begged as she yanked her gauntlets off and tried to touch him. That only caused him to fight harder, defeating her efforts to try and get his gag off.

“ _Varric_!” she screamed, sobbing, “Varric, help me! Oh, Maker, please, somebody help me!”

There were more footsteps running into the cabin, the jingle and clink of armor as others came to Hawke’s call. There was a collective gasp and Fenris felt shame such as he’d never known crawl through him as he realized what they must see when they looked at him.

And he thought he’d wanted to die _before_.

“Aveline, get Hawke out of here,” Varric ordered crisply, though there was a waver, a crack in his voice that Fenris had never heard before.

“No!” Hawke’s protest was broken.

“Come on, Hawke. Let Varric get him free first while you calm down. You’re no good to him like this.” Aveline, rock solid Aveline, her voice calm and commanding even in this and Fenris himself stilled slightly at the sound of it.

But Nerys fought her, struggling in the guard-captain’s iron grip until Aveline finally managed to wrestle her out of the room and down the hall. Finally she was far enough away that she could no longer be heard, and Varric took a knee as he knelt beside Fenris.

“Blondie,” he said quietly, “we’re gonna need you as soon as I get him free. Get your ass over here.”

Fenris flinched when Varric touched the gag and the dwarf halted instantly. A large, callused hand settled on his shoulder, warm and heavy where Danarius’s had been cool and thin. “Easy, Fenris,” he said soothingly. “I’m just going to get you free of these and then we’ll get you out of here. Just give me a few minutes.”

Fenris didn’t respond, but he slumped slightly and Varric carefully worked the buckle securing the gag at the back of his head free and the mass of leather and steel fell to the floor where it was kicked out of sight by someone else’s booted foot.

Next the dwarf’s thick fingers touched the chain where it attached to his collar, fiddling with it for a moment for be pulled out his lock picking tools. “I don’t suppose anyone has the key?” he muttered.

“It might still be on Danarius’s corpse,” Sebastian answered, startling Fenris because he wasn’t aware the man was in the room. “But given how Hawke left it, I doubt we’d find it.”

“She’s thorough, I’ll give her that.” Varric set to work on the lock. “Do me a favor, Choir Boy, and get his arms while I get this chain off.”

“Aye.” Sebastian’s nimble fingers worked the laces tying the cuffs together free, and then unbuckled the cuffs themselves, tossing them carelessly over his shoulder. The lock at Fenris’s throat popped open and fell to the floor, along with the short length of chain. And then Sebastian and Varric were easing Fenris up and back, their hands steady on his arms and shoulders as they settled him against the bed. Fenris screwed his eyes up tight against the pain, also not wanting to see _them_ when they got a good look at _him_.

And then they saw what else Danarius had done.

There was a terrible, heavy pause before three voices spoke at once.

“ _Fuck_.”

“Maker have mercy….”

“That monster!”

“I, uh, I think this is all you, Blondie,” Varric said and shuffled back to give the healer room.

While Fenris had never liked Anders, he never denied the man’s ability to heal or his deft hand at treating injuries. It was that which came to the fore now, his demeanor calm, his hands sure as they slipped between Fenris’s legs, tugging at the knotted red silk, unwinding it with soft, careful touches.

Fenris whimpered as it slipped free, pain radiating out from his groin, his knees drawing up instinctively to try and protect himself. Anders made soft shushing sounds, touching Fenris’s most sensitive areas with gentleness and respect. Cool healing magic flowed from the mage’s fingertips and the pain abated, receding first to a dull throbbing and then completely vanishing.

Cautiously, Fenris eased his eyes open, noticing Varric and Sebastian look on with concern, seeing Anders’s brows pulled together in concentration as he moved his hands to Fenris’s abdomen, focusing on the deeper internal damage. Next he turned his attention to the half-healed whip cuts and the muscles knotted and stiff from being held still and folded for so long. Callused, long-fingered hands gently touched his cheeks, healing the gouges from Danarius’s fingernails.

Finally Anders sat back on his heels, blotting the sweat from his brow.

“Varric, we have to get that collar off him. There’s something wrong with his throat and it’s not helping.”

The dwarf nodded and came forward, and Fenris leaned forward at the slight touch on the beck of his head. Varric fiddled with the locks on the buckles, muttering under his breath and then swearing softly. “I can’t get them open and these locks are so easy a child in the womb could do it. There’s something else holding them shut.”

Anders frowned, magic lighting the tips of his fingers as he examined the locks. “Blood magic,” he spat.

Varric cursed again. “Choir Boy, go get Daisy. We’ll see if she can open them. Cutting this thing off won’t be much fun if she can’t.”

Sebastian nodded, sprinting from the room, returning mere moments later with the Dalish elf.

“What is it, Varric?” she asked.

“These locks are being held shut with blood magic, Daisy. We need you to see if you can get them open.”

“All right, I’ll give it a try. Where—Creators have mercy! Oh, who would do such a thing?”

“We know who did it, Daisy,” Varric said gently. “You watched Hawke crush his skull just like we all did. Can you get them open?”

“I’ll try.” She bent over the collar, tiny fingers and tiny threads of magic poking at them. “Oh, Fenris, I’m so sorry! We got here as fast as we could! Just give me a moment and we’ll have you on Isabela’s ship with the rest of us.” Merrill’s voice was curiously thick, and Fenris heard her sniff several times.

She took a small knife from her belt, made a neat incision in her forearm and drew the blood into delicate looking strands that she threaded into the locks. After a moment, they fell open and Varric made quick work of removing them and undoing the buckles. “Good work, Daisy,” Varric said quietly. “Did you manage to find what I asked you to?”

“Oh, I did,” she replied quickly. “Let me go get them.” She returned, handing Varric something and scooping Nerys’s gauntlets off the floor.

Fenris kept his head very still. It hurt to move it at all now and he was almost afraid his neck couldn’t support it. Anders touched the sides of his throat, mindful of the lyrium markings, and channeled more healing magic into him. The constant ache that had been there since the night Danarius made him beg finally eased and he took a careful swallow and twisted his head, testing his mobility.

“That’s all I can do for now,” Anders finally said. “He needs food and rest. Let’s get him out of here.”

“Good idea. Daisy found us some clothes.”

Anders took the garments Varric handed him. “Help me with these, Sebastian,” he said, and two men began to carefully tug them over Fenris’s pliant limbs. It was only then that Fenris realized what they were doing, getting him ready to take with him back to their ship.

Back to Nerys.

He struggled then, a protest that was no more than an undefined sound rising in his healed throat. He fought the hands that tried to calm him until Varric’s voice rose over the tumult.

“Stop it, both of you! Move, give him some space!” The two men backed off, leaving a half-dressed Fenris panting and huddled on the floor. Varric gestured to them. “Go wait outside for a few minutes while I talk to him.”

Surprisingly, the two humans left without comment and Varric shut the broken door behind them. Alone, he turned back to Fenris, regarding him steadily for a minute. “You want to tell me what that was all about?”

Fenris shook his head, hair falling over his brows to obscure his eyes. Varric sighed. “I’m trying to help here, Fenris. Give me something to work with.”

He didn’t want to speak or explain. He just wanted to be left alone, to curl up and lick his wounds in private. But that wasn’t going to happen, not with these people. They never knew when to stop, to leave well enough alone, and whether he wanted them to or not, they were going to take him off of Danarius’s ship. He would never be able to make them understand, make them see what he was now. But if he gave them nothing, they would only press harder. If…if he could tell Varric just enough to prevent more questions, he had to try.

“I can’t go back,” Fenris whispered. “I can’t go back. Not to…not to _her_.”

“Hawke,” the dwarf said and Fenris nodded. “I don’t know if you noticed, Fenris, but if you don’t go back it just might kill her. She’s been nearly out of her mind the last week and half while we’ve been playing catch up.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Fenris said in an agonized whisper. The words fell out, tripping over themselves as panic rose and his breath came in short, fast pants. “Not after…after _this_. She saw…she saw…she saw what he…what he _did_ and I can’t…I can’t….” He faltered to a stop, heels of hands that were once again his own pressing into his eyes.

Varric was silent for a long, long time. Finally he wiped his mouth and shook his head. “I’m way out of my depth here, and while that’s not hard for a dwarf, I pride myself on not being your average dwarf. I don’t know what to tell you or how to help. What I do know is that you’ve got a woman who’s absolutely crazy about you waiting for you on the other ship. You’re not stupid, we both know that. You know she’s not going to hold anything that bastard did against you.”

Hands still over his face, Fenris shook his head again. “You don’t know what he _did_.”

“No, I don’t,” Varric agreed heavily. “And that’s not a story for me. But what I do know if that you’re alive and he’s dead and that’s the way it should be. But don’t let him keep you from going back to Hawke, from going back home.”

There was a soft curse and then he added, “Hawke’s gonna kill me if she ever finds out, but…I’m not saying you have to stay in Kirkwall. But come back with us. And if you do leave, you owe it to Hawke to tell it to her face. That’s all I’m asking for, Fenris. Just give her that much.”

Eventually Fenris nodded. As much as he couldn’t bear the thought of facing Nerys, Varric had a point. He owed her after what she’d done and he’d always paid his debts to her. But he was still afraid of what he would see in her eyes. She would look at him in disgust, he knew it. How could she not? He’d given up, given in so easily. For a woman as strong as Hawke was, that was unacceptable. Despite what Varric said that Hawke felt, Fenris knew it wouldn’t last. She’d see him for how weak he really was, would despise him for it, and that would ensure that any remaining feeling she had for him died.

Fenris wasn’t sure he could survive that when it happened.

Anders and Sebastian came back in, helping him up on unsteady legs and guiding him from the cabin. At the threshold he froze, trying to pull himself from their grasp. “The belt!” he gasped, thrashing to get free of them and pick it up off the floor. “The belt!” He wouldn’t leave it here. Danarius had sullied it enough.

“What are you doing, Fenris?” Anders asked baffled, while Sebastian looked at him like he’d lost him mind. Fenris ignored them, knowing he must look mad to them. All that mattered was getting that piece of red silk back and he struggled against those keeping him from doing that.

Varric stepped in—kind, knowing, _observant_ Varric. “I got it, Broody,” he said, the nickname a piece of sanctuary. “Here.” He pressed the fabric into Fenris’s hand and Fenris clutched it tightly, balling it up so that it was completely hidden in his hand.

Once more they set out from the cabin, moving at his slower pace, carefully easing him over the gangplank onto Isabela’s ship. As soon as they were clear, the planks were pulled back and ropes cut, deckhands pushing the two ships apart. When they were a good distance away, Anders lifted one hand almost negligently and lobbed a fireball onto the deck of Danarius’s drifting ship. The flames caught almost immediately, running with blue fire over the surfaces that had been doused with oil. They watched as the entire structure caught and then turned to go below decks.

“Hey, gorgeous!” Isabela called from where she stood at the wheel, and laughed when all three men looked up. “You can have my cabin for the voyage back as long as you promise me we never have to do this again.”

Fenris nodded weakly, suddenly exhausted. By the time Anders and Sebastian set him down on the bed in the captain’s cabin, he was already half asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

When he awoke, he was settled under a blanket, enough to keep him warm, but not heavy or thick enough to make him feel like he was trapped. Blinking his eyes open, he looked around, seeing the cabin for the first time. The large, rear facing window was thrown open, letting in light and the smell of clean, salty air. Sebastian sat on the slight ledge the window provided, one leg propped up, the other braced against the floor, an open book in his hands.

He looked up, coming to his feet instantly when he saw that Fenris was awake, closing the book and putting it on the desk with the raised edge to keep things from rolling off. Fenris pushed up with his arms carefully, levering himself up and sitting back against the headboard.

“How are you feeling?” Sebastian asked.

“Fine,” Fenris said flatly.

“I…see. Do you need anything? Anders said he wanted to see you when you woke, and I can get it while he checks you over.”

“I said I am fine,” Fenris repeated in that same flat tone. “There is no need for you to summon the abom…the m… _him_.” The memory of Anders healing him flashed through his mind and it felt wrong to address Anders with the epithets Fenris usually used. It did not seem…fair to do so, when Anders had done what he had, had touched him the way only two others ever had.

Sebastian hesitated, clearly weighing his options. “I do not think he’ll be put off so easily, but I can try,” Sebastian offered. “But you must be hungry. I’ll get you something from the galley. Do you want me to have them heat some water for you as well? I cleaned you as best I could, but I imagine you’ll want to do it yourself.”

Fenris went rigid. “You…bathed me.” It was not a question.

“Aye,” the archer said softly. “It was not…right to leave you in that state.”

No, the Maker probably wouldn’t look down in approval at leaving a man covered in blood and come.

“I was afraid I’d disturb your sleep,” Sebastian continued, “but you slept like a man dead. I must confess, I was becoming concerned. You’ve slept for nearly a day.”

 _Like a man dead. If only._ He repressed the mad urge to laugh, running a shaky hand through his hair, wondering what was wrong with him.

When he said nothing, Sebastian moved to the door. “I’ll be back shortly.” The door closed gently behind him. As soon as Fenris heard the footsteps fade, he shoved back the covers draped over him.

The silk hadn’t been in his hands when he’d woken up and he searched frantically among the bedclothes for it. If Sebastian had taken it when he cleaned him up, he would kill him. Nothing. Not under the blanket or the sheet. Panic caused his chest to seize up. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t there! It was gone. Sebastian had taken it from him and—

Wait, no. There, under the pillow. With a small cry, Fenris pulled it out with trembling hands, clutching it against him while his racing heartbeat slowed. Maker, what was _wrong_ with him? He was free and safe, Danarius was dead, he was healed and being protected by those who cared for him, and all he wanted to do was hide himself away and cry. He could feel the tears, shameful and hot, pressing on his eyes even now, and scrubbed an angry hand across them.  _Weak._ He was so _weak_.

 _Disgusting._ He could barely stand himself. How did the others force their revulsion down enough to be around him? His skin crawled as memories rose unbidden, the feel of Danarius touching him, of Fenris allowing the magister to use him. He scratched at his arms, but it didn’t help. Long red lines appeared as he scratched harder, wanting the feel of his master off of him, even if it took tearing off his own flesh.

Rapid footsteps gave him only the briefest warning before there was a sharp knock. He jerked his arms back under the covers, shoving the belt underneath him so it couldn’t be seen. The door swung open and Anders strode in. The mage planted his fists on his hips and looked at Fenris in exasperation. “What’s this I here about not wanting to see me?”

“I’m fine. I require no healing.”

“Right,” Anders drawled. “Well, how about we try to novel approach of letting the _healer_ decide that, hmm?”

He sat on the bed, reaching out and lightly resting his fingers on the sides of Fenris’s head before Fenris could jerk away. His eyes narrowed in concentration as the familiar current of healing magic flowed through Fenris. Drawing back slightly, Anders frowned, and gently grasped Fenris’s wrist, lifting his arm and pushing back the sleeve to reveal the long, red scratch marks, not quite at the point of bleeding, but close.

Magic flowed through Fenris, the angry lines fading the pink and then disappearing completely, leaving only smooth, tanned skin.

“Don’t do that, Fenris,” Anders said gravely, brown eyes dark and sad as he looked Fenris full in the face. “If you need something to help you sleep or to keep calm, ask me. But don’t…don’t do _that_. All right? Trust me, it never ends well.”

The door to the cabin opened again, this time revealing Sebastian bearing a tray of food. Anders stood smoothly. “You’re completely healed,” he said. “But I want you to take it easy. Your body is still recovering from the trauma, so I expect you’ll sleep a lot, and it might be several days before you’re feeling up to normal exertions. Eat and drink as much water as you can. It’ll help. And if you need anything, _anything at all_ , just send for me.”

Fenris did not thank him when he left, nor did he thank Sebastian when the man set the tray down on the bed. The food looked good, but Fenris found himself picking at, not really very hungry at all, despite how little he’d eaten in the last week and a half. The worried looks from Sebastian were ignored…to be replaced by worried looks from Aveline when Sebastian left.

“Are you taking turns guarding me?” he snapped. “Worried I might sneak out the window if no one’s looking?”

Aveline remained unperturbed. “We’re looking out for you, Fenris. In case you need anything.”

“I’m fine!” Strange, how he kept saying those words and each time he believed them a little less.

“Very well.” Aveline ducked her head in acknowledgement, turned and left. Fenris stared at the closed door, not truly trusting that he was alone and unwatched. Minutes passed and he began to relax. Once he was sure no one was going to come in, he shoved the bedclothes back once again and slid his legs over the side. The red silk peaked out from under his leg, disturbed by his movements, and he pulled it free. The wrist was too visible, so he pushed up his sleeve, wrapping the length of fabric around his upper arm and tying it awkwardly. Sleeve back in place, he pushed himself to his feet.

His first few steps were tottering, and he fell against the window sill hard. That caused a brief burst of laughter. Wouldn’t _that_ be ironic, if he fell out the window and drowned himself after all when all he wanted to do was look at the sky?

Fenris lowered himself carefully to his knees, folded his arms on the sill and then rested his head on them, eyes trained on the late afternoon sky. It was a rich, deep blue, white puffy clouds hanging as if dabbed there by an artist’s brush. He watched for hours, occasionally picked at the food on the left behind tray, drinking water more than eating because he found the longer he was awake, the thirstier he was. Conversation from the crew drifted in through the open window faintly, but Fenris didn’t hear the familiar voices of his companions.

Slowly, the blue lightened, turning to yellows and oranges and reds as the sun set. It was…beautiful, and Fenris drew a shuddering breath as he realized that he’d never really expected to look upon a sunset this way again. Beauty was not for slaves, except to be beautiful to please their masters.

Stars were just beginning to dot the sky when there was a soft knock at the door. Fenris eased himself into a standing position, legs stiff from kneeling at the window. He started to call out, then had to cough and clear his throat. “Come in,” he finally managed.

Anders stepped in, closing the door behind him gently. He regarded Fenris’s position at the window for a long moment before reaching into his robes and withdrawing a small flask. “I thought you might want this,” he said, holding it out. “It’ll help you fall asleep quickly. And your sleep will be…dreamless.”

Fenris reached for the flask with an eagerness that was shameful.

Instead of leaving as soon as the sleeping draught was in Fenris’s hands, Anders hesitated by the door, fingertips tapping nervously against each other. “You know, if you need someone to talk to—”

“I do not want to _talk_ about anything!” Fenris hissed, cutting off the mage before he could finish speaking.

“I didn’t say if you wanted to, I said if you needed to!” Anders snapped back. Then he sighed wearily and pinched the bridge of his nose between two long fingers. “Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to make either of us angry.”

“Then leave,” Fenris said icily.

But Anders didn’t. He took a deep breath and looked up at Fenris calmly. “I know you don’t like me. I’m not asking you to. I know you don’t like mages, and quite frankly, I can’t really blame you for that now either. I’ve…I’ve said things in the past that I really shouldn’t have, and for that I’m sorry. But I will ask that you not judge _me_ by the actions of that monster. However else you feel about me, you can’t honestly believe that I would ever do something like that.”

Fenris nodded his head stiffly. The mage…had a point. “Be that as it may, I will not recount my experiences for your amusement.”

“Amusement?” Anders’s eyebrows shot up. “Maker, Fenris, you can’t believe I would honestly take any pleasure in what was done to you.” He shook his head. “No. I’m offering a helping hand or a listening ear because none of the others can possibly relate to what you to what you went through.”

“And you can?” Fenris sneered, contemptuous at the thought that the mage—the _abomination_ —could possibly have any idea what he went through.

“To some extent, yes,” Anders replied quietly. “Not…not _everything_ that was done to you was also inflicted on me, but enough of it was that I understand what you went through. And I remember all of it. It’s not something you forget.”

He stopped there, eyes going unfocused for a second before shivering and wiping away beads of sweat that broke out over his upper lip. Fenris looked away, unwilling to watch the other man’s moment of weakness. It was too close to his own for comfort, and he felt the ghost touch crawling over his skin again.

“Do you think that was the first time my mas— _Danarius_ —had done that?” he asked quietly. “I survived it before without help, and I will do so now.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Anders agreed. “But it’s not the rape and the whippings and the chains that have me worried.”

Fenris flinched slightly at each word, memories—like wounds that had barely scabbed over—ripping open with each one.

“I know you don’t think mages are slaves, Fenris,” Anders continued quietly. “But we _are_ prisoners. And I know what it’s like to escape my jailer only to be brought back each time and then punished for having the audacity to want to be free.”

“It is not the same.” The words were barely audible, spoken in a whisper.

“No,” Anders agreed, “but it’s close enough. It’s not your fault, Fenris. Whatever he did to you, whatever he made you do… _it’s not your fault_.”

Fenris smiled mirthlessly. “Isn’t it?” It was easy for Anders to say. He had railed against the templars and Chantry more times that Fenris could count, swearing that he would never submit again. That he’d rather die before going to the Gallows or any Circle. He wasn’t the one whose will was broken before his master had even put his hands on him. He wasn’t the one who didn’t fight back, who didn’t lift so much as a single finger to try and hold onto what he had.

No, that was _Fenris_. And in that moment, Fenris hated Anders more than he ever had before because he showed Fenris just how weak he really was.

“No, it’s not!” The intensity of Anders’s words made Fenris finally look back at the mage. “It’s not,” Anders repeated firmly. “And if anyone should be ashamed of what happened, it’s Danarius and he’s dead.”

At that, Fenris’s hands balled into fists and he clenched his teeth together. Death was too good for the magister. It should have been Fenris who tore him from this life. Fenris who should have repaid all the agonies with pain and blood. Fenris who—

A touch on his arm jerked him back into the present, even as he jerked away from the touch. Anders was right in front of him, his hand already dropping back down to his side. “Don’t let him win,” Anders said. “Don’t let him take from you all that you accomplished. You’re free now. Don’t let a memory cage you.”

Fenris stepped back away from the mage. “I’d like to be alone now.”

Anders wanted to say more, Fenris could see it on his face and in the frustrated movements of his hands and arms. He finally nodded and turned back to the door, closing it behind him.

Fenris’s legs were shaking, and he more fell onto the bed rather than sat. Free. He started to laugh, laughter than quickly caught on a sob and he pressed a hand over his mouth to stifle it. The healer was so naïve. Danarius had already shown Fenris the truth.

He’d never be free again. He never had been.

Fumbling with the cork in the flask, he tossed it onto the floor and drained the potion in three quick swallows. The flask followed its stopper and Fenris crawled back into the bed and under the covers.


	5. Chapter 5

The return to Kirkwall was quiet. For several days, Fenris slept a lot, a combination of both his body’s own need to rest and more of Anders’s potions. Fenris was aware—vaguely—of the others watching over him while he slept. They all took turns. He even awoke in the night once to find Hafter, Nerys’s mabari, curled up against him in the bed. They also checked on him while he was awake, and ashamed of his childish tantrum of throwing Aveline out, he didn’t object to their presence. Varric filled him in on details he didn’t know—the rush to find crew for Isabela’s ship, the deals and bribes to raiders and smugglers for information, the battle on the ship. The dwarf also told him, in a rather careful sort of way, that Varania was dead, Nerys having slit her throat while she begged for mercy.

Fenris didn’t think Varric was particularly comforted by the smile that crossed his face, but he couldn’t be bothered to care.

By the time Fenris felt strong enough to go up on deck, everyone had been by at least once to check on him and make sure he was “all right.”

Everyone, that was, except Nerys.

Her absence worried him, but he was more relieved than anything else. Coward that he was, he wanted to avoid her, her disdain, her condemnation, for as long as possible. After all, until he actually saw it he could fancy that she might at least pity him, keep him by her side for the usefulness of his blade if nothing else.

At least for a little while.

_Pathetic._

When he first stepped on deck, the sunlight was bright enough to blind him. He threw up an arm to shield his eyes, blinking rapidly as they adjusted. Once he was sure the last of the bright after-images from the sun glinting off the ocean had faded, he lowered his arm and stepped fully out into the sunlight.

The crew was going about their work, and ignored him completely. Aveline and Sebastian were standing with their heads together, looking out at the water, talking quietly. They were both unarmored, leather breeches and linen tunics serving them better upon a ship. The sight of the guard-captain in anything other than plate befuddled him for a moment and he stood still, staring.

“Hello, Fenris!” a bright voice called from above, and he glanced up to see Merrill perched in the crow’s next, waving at him.

“Eyes on the horizon, Kitten!” Isabela called, and with a cheery “Aye-aye, Captain!” Merrill turned back to her task.

Merrill’s call had caught more than just Fenris’s attention. Across from him, Varric and Anders sat on the deck with Nerys, playing cards. When he’d emerged, Nerys had her back to him, but she was turned around now, one knee under her as she went to stand. Varric and Anders caught her arms quickly, trying to tug her back down. She shook them off, pulling free and getting to her feet.

Anders was faster in following her than Varric, grabbing her arm again before she’d taken more than a handful of steps. Fenris’s fists clenched involuntarily at the sight of the mage’s hand holding her so tightly. That he thought he had to right to _touch_ her, that he dared do so—

Fenris turned away from the sight of Anders speaking to her rapidly, of her face clouding with confusion and anger. Walking quickly, he edged past them to the bow of the ship, where the railing formed a point and leaned against it. The wind ruffled his hair, and he heard the sound of the ship cutting through the waves, the flag at the top of the main mast snapping and cracking.

For a long time he stood there, sensing the others move behind him, but no one approached. The sun warmed his face, the breeze cooled it, and the ship raced through the water like a horse given its head. He watched the sun set, a red ball of fire slowly slipping into a darkening sea.

And, finally, he heard boot steps behind him, the gait and tread familiar, both reassuring yet terrifying.

Fenris turned slowly, knowing he needed to acknowledge her presence. Nerys was dressed much like the others, boots, simple leather breeches and top that he suspected was borrowed from Isabela. For a moment, neither spoke, and Fenris kept his gaze somewhere around her neck, unwilling to look into her face.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly.

“I am fine.”

Nerys hesitated, took a half step forward and raised a hand. Fenris saw the movement and took a step to the side and back to dodge the touch, looking up at her quickly.

She stopped, hand upraised between then, a look of such utter hurt on her face that Fenris immediately felt disgusted with himself.

“I’m tired,” he said abruptly, seizing on any excuse to hurry by her and get away. A stupid, foolish part of himself hoped that she might reach for him anyway as he passed, might call out to stop him as she’d done once before. But it was a vain hope. Her hand fell limply to her side and she simply watched as he moved past and away from her, fleeing toward the scant sanctuary of the cabin.

~*~

For the last several days of the return voyage, Nerys did not approach him again. Fenris saw her watching him whenever he was on deck, hands twisting together, but someone was always with her—usually Varric and Anders, and between the two—it was far more frequently Anders—they stopped her from going to him.

Fenris tried to dismiss the anger he felt when he saw how closely the mage sat to her, his head bent next to her ear, his hand resting comfortably on her knee or thigh or arm. Given that he knew his time in Nerys’s presence was limited, he had no right to be angry, nor to deny her the chance to be with someone else. Anders had always been there on the side, waiting for the day that Nerys finally got tired of Fenris and all of his baggage. Well, now Fenris had more than even he could carry, so the mage would have his chance.

But it _hurt_.

When they arrived back in Kirkwall and docked, Donnic was waiting for them. Aveline hurried off the ship to meet him, and while they didn’t embrace or really offer any public display of affection, the relief in each of their faces, the way subtle tension bled out of Donnic’s stance told how glad they were to see the other safe.

One by one the others disembarked. Sebastian and Merrill first, followed by Anders. Nerys hesitated, standing on deck until Isabela came down, called instructions to her crew and threw an arm across Nerys’s shoulders, talking loudly about needing a drink at the Hanged Man.

“Come on, Broody,” Varric said from behind Fenris. “Let’s get you home.”

“I do not need an escort,” Fenris said stiffly.

“Of course you don’t. But I’m headed up to Hightown to finish going through Bartrand’s mansion anyway, and I could use the company on the walk.”

Fenris heard the lie for what it was.

“Did _she_ tell you to keep an eye on me?”

Varric shook his head. “No, she wouldn’t do that. But you know Hawke—she worries. And I’ll sleep a lot better if I know she doesn’t have a reason to be worrying.”

Turning away from the dwarf and shrugging to resettle the comforting weight of the sword on his back, Fenris strode down the gangplank, Varric hurrying after him. Fenris kept up the quick pace, Varric cursing softly behind him as he followed. The walk back to Fenris’s mansion was quick and Fenris was surprised when he finally halted before the weathered door. He didn’t remember much of the walk back and it felt like it should have taken longer.

Fenris turned to face the panting Varric. “I am home. You can tell Hawke there is no need to worry when you speak to her.”

“Sure thing, Broody. Sure thing. Just…let me get my breath and then you’ll be rid of me.”

A handful of breaths later, Varric straightened and caught Fenris’s gaze. “I’ll be seeing you around then?” he asked. “Your seat’s always open for Wicked Grace.”

“I will…think about it.” It was all Fenris could offer. The thought of going to the Hanged Man any time soon and sitting and drinking with the others made him want to throw up. Right then, he simply wanted to be alone.

Varric nodded. “Be seeing you then.” And with that, he turned and headed off—back toward Lowtown and not Batrand’s mansion as he claimed.

For a long moment, Fenris looked at the door before finally reaching out and opening it. The hinges squealed in protest and Fenris stepped into the dark, dusty foyer, pushing the door closed with his foot. He stood in the gloom for a long time, staring at nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

Days passed and Fenris remained within the walls of his mansion. He’d drunk himself into oblivion the first day and then again on the second. The third day, he’d taken his greatsword to the mansion, destroying what he could in a violent fit of rage. Everything that had yet to succumb to the years of neglect was fodder for his blade, the floors of the mansion now littered with fresh debris. Then he’d returned to the bottle and the escape he found within it.

He was aware that the others had come to see him, knocking and calling for him, but he’d remained silent, hidden in the shadows, and waited for them to leave as they inevitably did.

The only time he was tempted to reveal himself was when the door creaked open and he heard Nerys’s quiet voice call his name. Her footsteps echoed dully as she stepped inside, and Fenris watched her from behind a slightly opened door in a side room. His eyes followed her as she carefully climbed the stairs and peered into the room he used to use. Not finding him, she apparently decided he wasn’t there and made her way back outside, murmuring to someone waiting there for her.

Once he was sure she was gone, Fenris slipped from the side room and retraced her steps, trying to see what she saw. The mansion was a disaster and he shuddered, wondering how she had been able to bear coming here to see him. His stubbornness and spite had forced her to wade through filth in order to talk to him, to help with his reading lessons and ask for his help on a job.

He ascended the stairs, placing his feet in her footsteps in the dust and looked into his bedroom. It was untouched since the morning they’d left to confront his sister. A partial bottle of wine sat on the desk, a half burned out candle next to it. The book he’d been working on with Nerys was open in front of them, left from where he’d been reading it that last night. Around the room were a few personal effects—a comb, a couple changes of clean clothes only half-heartedly folded, a dagger, a whetstone. The bed was rumpled, unmade and untouched as well. He hadn’t used it since he returned.

Fenris hadn’t _slept_ since he returned.

He passed out when he finally drank enough, yes, but that was usually down in the cellars where a disturbing number of empty bottles were accumulating. But that offered no true rest and when night fell, Fenris found himself unable to go to his room and sleep in the bed. Instead, he’d taken to roaming the streets of Kirkwall at night, walking until the sun finally began to come up and he staggered back to his mansion to drink himself insensate.

It was a wonder he hadn’t been accosted during his nightly travels. In his condition, he would be hard pressed to defend himself from the Coterie or the Carta or any one of the innumerable gangs that roamed the streets. He almost invited them to attack him, with his careless behavior and dulled senses. But his reputation at Nerys’s side had been well earned, and few were loath to attract the Champion’s ire by attacking her companions.

Standing at the threshold now, he was no more able to enter the room than he had been since he returned. This place, this room, was no longer the sanctuary it had once been. Fenris might not be held in body any longer, but he was a prisoner of his own mind, and it would not allow him to find any rest within those walls.

Bottle still clenched tightly in his fist, he staggered away from the doorway, back down to the first floor and then into the cellars, where the promise of nothingness—if not peace—waited.

~*~

Darktown was living up to its name as Fenris wandered the squalid streets. Dark, hungry eyes peered out at him from the shadows, but his armor and weapon were enough to discourage them, especially as his destination became clear.

The lantern above the door to Anders’s clinic was out, but that meant nothing. The healer was usually found within unless he was on a job with Nerys or working with the mage underground.

_Or unless he was with Nerys at her mansion._

The thought clung like a burr in Fenris’s mind as his first pounding on the door produced no results. He pounded again and this time was rewarded with the sound of something falling inside and a muffled cursing. The door was jerked open.

“This had better be important or else….” Anders trailed off, eyes opening in shock at the sight before him. “Fenris?” he whispered hesitantly.

Fenris knew the reason for the hesitation. He’d caught a glimpse of himself in a shop window sometime in the evening, had seen the dark circles that ringed his eyes and the redness within them, the sunken cheeks, the lank, unwashed hair.

Anders stepped back so Fenris could enter, shutting the door behind them and barring it. Gesturing for Fenris to take a cot and casually lighting a lamp with a wave of his hand, he said, “Sit down before you fall down. Let me at least get a shirt on.” He padded off to a back room, clad only in a pair of patched and stained pants.

Easing himself down on the rickety cot carefully, Fenris waited in silence until Anders reemerged, shrugging into a shirt that was just as worn as stained as his pants. Anders ran his hands through his hair, gathering it up haphazardly and tied it off with a bit of cord. Then he grabbed a chair, placed it before where Fenris sat and sank onto it.

“Andraste’s tits, Fenris. How much have you had to drink?”

“A lot,” Fenris replied mirthlessly. “Not enough.”

“You can’t do this,” Anders murmured, reaching out and letting a soft healing spell flow over Fenris, taking the worst of the screaming headache away and the edge off of his exhaustion. “When was the last time you slept?”

“I haven’t.”

“Maker, Fenris,” Anders sighed. “You can’t do this. It’s not good for you.”

Fenris started to laugh, the sound high and unnatural. And once he started, he couldn’t stop, his chest heaving as the hysterical laughter overtook him. He saw Anders’s eyes widen, saw the fear and concern in them and tried to pull himself back, rein in the reaction. He managed to do so, barely, by breaking Anders’s eye contact and biting the inside of his cheek. But even then he teetered on the edge of another bout.

It scared him, how badly his control over his mind had slipped, how tenuous his grasp of reality was.

“I can give you something to take back to your mansion tonight,” Anders said quietly. “You clearly need the rest—”

“No.” Fenris cut him off, shaking his head. “Just give me the potion and I’ll go somewhere else. I can’t sleep there anymore.”

“I can’t do that, Fenris.” He held up his hands in an appeasing gesture when Fenris started to snarl out a demand. “Wait! Listen! That stuff knocks you out. You take and wander the streets and you’ll never wake up. What about going to the Hanged Man?”

“No.” Too close to Varric and Isabela. Too close to prying eyes and ears.

“Another inn then? I know you have the coin for it.”

Fenris rose, towering over the mage. “Give me the potion or do not. I did not come here to be questioned incessantly.” He turned for the door.

“Maker, no! Wait!” The chair scraped backwards along the floor and Anders hurried to place himself between Fenris and the door. “I’ll give you the potion, but stay here tonight. Just…just take a cot and sleep it off and go in the morning, but please don’t leave here in that state.”

Nodding stiffly, Fenris waited while Anders went into his small room at the back, coming back with a small vial. Fenris frowned at it. The vial was much smaller than the flasks Anders had given him before. A raised eyebrow was enough to communicate his thoughts.

“It’ll do the job,” Anders said. “A smaller dose is probably better anyway.”

Fenris hesitated a moment more before taking the vial quickly. Keeping it tightly clenched in his fist, he stalked across the clinic. The cot set against the far wall, away from the door and most of the rest of the clinic would suit his purposes. He shrugged off the harness for his sword, laying the weapon down carefully on the ground next to the cot. The he popped the cork free of the vial, drank it, placed it on the ground next to his blade and finally stretched out on the cot.

He lay awake while Anders doused the lamp and returned to his own room. And sometime between darkness falling over the clinic and the sounds of Darktown drifting in through the barred door, Fenris fell asleep.

~*~

The scene repeated itself each night for the next week, Anders growing more and more reluctant to hand over the potion. Finally, he refused outright one night, even in the face of Fenris backing him against a wall, lyrium markings flaring to life.

“No,” he said quietly. “No more.”

“You call yourself a healer!” Fenris snarled. “Your heart bleeds for all the poor here, yet where is your compassion now? Have you run out of pity for the poor slave?”

“It’s not doing you any good, Fenris.”

“It lets me sleep!”

With a weary sigh, Anders closed his eyes for a long moment. Surely he had to be aware that there was nothing between his heart and Fenris’s hand other than a thin barrier of cloth, flesh and bone. When he reopened his eyes, they were dark with understanding.

“I know. But getting these potions from me is no different than crawling down a half dozen wine bottles every night. I know it’s hard, but you need to learn to find rest without them.”

Fenris’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened, and Anders sighed again.

“Fine. I’ll make you a deal. Since we’ve been back, I’m the only one who’s seen you. The others are worried. Start coming with me to the Hanged Man in the evenings and I’ll give you the potion.”

“So now you’ll blackmail me for help.”

“Yes! If that’s how you want to look at it, then yes, I’m blackmailing you! Though it’s a piss poor deal on my end, since all I get is an angry elf who regularly threatens to crush my vital organs.” He pushed back against Fenris who grudgingly stepped back. “We’ll start tonight. Let’s go.”

Without looking back, Anders left the clinic, leaving Fenris to follow along behind him if they chose. Fenris almost didn’t go, so irritated was he at the mage, but the thought of trying to sleep tonight without the mage’s help left his hands trembling. So he barred the clinic door and followed Anders out of the back passage and up into Lowtown.

Varric, Isabela and Merrill were at the Hanged Man, drinking ale and playing cards for copper bits in Varric’s sweet. They greeted Anders and there was a slight pause as Fenris followed him in before they greeted him as well. Fenris ignored the meaningful looks the others exchanged and sat heavily in his usual place.

Without missing a beat, Varric scooped the cards back, shuffled them and dealt everyone a fresh hand while Isabela poured them each a mug of ale from the pitcher and Fenris and Anders dug their coppers out. Conversation resumed around the table, with Anders joining in. Fenris remained silent, concentrating on the ale and his cards, downing the first and only barely paying attention to the second. For the most part, he ignored the others. Anders’s price was his presence, nothing more.

When they left and were back in Anders’s clinic, the mage handed over the vial of sleeping draught without protest, though his expression was reproachful. Fenris didn’t care. All the disapproval in the world from the mage wouldn’t deter him from this course.

~*~

There was a different group in Varric’s suite each night, and eventually Fenris saw all of his companions, except for one. He refused to let him mind dwell on it until a few nights later, when something caught his attention. “So, Blondie,” Varric said, “seen Hawke around recently?”

Fenris’s head shot up, his blood running cold as he fixed the dwarf with a hard stare. “Hawke is missing?”

“No, no,” Varric said quickly. “Choir Boy checked at her mansion and Orana said she’s been coming home every couple of days or so. We just haven’t seen her. No jobs, no cards. Just wondering if she’d visited someone else.”

“I haven’t,” Anders said. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“What about you, Broody?” Varric asked. “Seen Hawke around?”

“No,” Fenris replied shortly, and left it at that. Varric shrugged and turned his attention back to the game.

Fenris tried playing for a bit longer, but finally threw his cards down in disgust, scooping up what remained of his coin and heading for the door. Ignoring Anders’s raised eyebrow, he muttered a quick goodbye and hastened from the Hanged Man, Varric’s words ringing in his ears. His reckless behavior was one thing, but harm could not be allowed to befall Nerys.

He made his way silently up to Hightown, watching Nerys’s mansion for awhile. There were a few lights on, but none in the library or her bedroom. Frowning, Fenris turned for his own mansion. He would gather a few items and then come back to watch for Nerys’s return. Wherever she was going, she shouldn’t be going alone. And if she hadn’t been seeking anyone out, then she didn’t want company. While Fenris could understand that urge, it was simply too dangerous for her. It appeared his inability to sleep nights was a boon after all.

He entered his mansion, intent on only grabbing a few supplies—dagger, whetstone, a skin for water. The door has just closed behind him, when a voice came from out of the dark.

“I wondered when you’d be back.”

The front hall was bathed in the brilliant white-blue light from his markings as his attention snapped to the stairs and the woman sitting upon them. She was dressed plainly, no sign of armor and weapons near her. And she…did not look well. Dark circles were smudged under her eyes, and her skin appeared sickly in the pulsing bluish light of Fenris’s markings. Gradually, he let them dim until the only light that remained was the moonlight streaming in through the windows.

“Hawke,” Fenris said cautiously. “Have you…been here long?”

Nerys shrugged. “Three days, more or less,” she said quietly. “I figured you had to come back eventually.”

“I…see.” He didn’t, not really. Why would anyone wait in this Makerforsaken place for him? “Did you…need something?”

Rising to her feet, she didn’t answer, instead walking toward him. He tensed as she stopped in front of him, looking up at him with eyes wide in the dark. She searched his face, looking for something and her expression fell slightly as she apparently failed to find what she wanted.

“Why are you doing this?” she finally asked sadly.

“Doing what?”

“Avoiding me.”

“I’m not,” he said, clinging to the thread of truth in his statement. He’d avoided her a few times, yes, but now…they just…didn’t meet.

She frowned. “Really? And if I showed up at Varric’s, would you stay? Would you return?”

He hesitated, and she pounced on that break. “Don’t lie to me. Please.”

Fenris looked away, unable to meet her eyes while he did as she asked. “No.”

Sucking in a shuddering breath, she also looked away, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes before she released the breath and looked up at him, face tight with anger and pain. _Ah,_ he thought, _here it comes._ He braced himself, waiting for her ire and her demand that he leave because he’d failed her.

“Why not?” she asked instead. “I don’t understand.”

Fenris licked his lips, bewildered. She wanted an explanation? “Because I can’t,” he finally said.

“But _why_?” she nearly cried in frustration.

Why was she doing this? Didn’t she see? Did he have to completely humiliate himself by explaining to her why he wasn’t fit to be in her presence? Wasn’t it obvious that what he’d done forever removed the right to be near her, removed the chance that he might somehow fix what he’d broken so long ago?

But if she truly didn’t realize, then he owed it to her to explain. After everything she’d done for him, he owed her that. He would tell her and he would go. He should have left the day they’d returned to Kirkwall, spared the both of them this.

And if she wanted the truth, he would give it to her.

He took a deep breath, gathering his courage and it failed him the first time. He looked away, his breath coming harder. For her part, Nerys said nothing and simply waited for him. With a second try, words he’d longed to say for three years finally made it past his lips.

“I love you,” he said brokenly. “I have for so long.”

Shock rippled across her face, her eyes widening further, though it seemed impossible. “ _Then why_?!” she demanded. “Maker, Fenris, why do this if you feel that way?!”

She stepped closer, bringing one hand up to his face, and without thinking, he stepped back, slapping her hand away. Everything stopped. He stared at his hand in disbelief and then looked back at Nerys, the hurt expression on his face twisting his heart.

“Don’t touch me,” he said hoarsely. “I’m not fit to be touched.”

Alarm overtook the hurt and shock on her face. “Fenris, what—”

“I don’t deserve you,” he rushed on, knowing that if he let her speak, he would never be able to finish this. “I wanted…I hoped, but…I’m not worthy of you. I never have been and after Danarius….” He shuddered, his throat closing up as memories surged to the fore—pain and tears, mocking laughter and the image of a beloved face soft in passion being replaced by a hated one contorted in lust.

She stepped toward him again and this time he shoved her backwards, hands hard on her shoulders as he pushed, sending her stumbling back several steps. Again he stared at his hands—traitorous, deceitful hands that were never meant to caress or know the softness of another’s touch.

“I’m disgusting,” he said quietly, still looking at his hands. “Look what I chose.”

“Fenris, you didn’t choose that!”

“I did.” He looked up at her, suddenly feeling more lucid and calm that he had since he’d gone with Danarius. “I could have kept fighting. I knew what he was going to do, but I went anyway.”

“You were trying to save us!”

“I was trying to save _you_ ,” he corrected. “That doesn’t change what happened when we left. What I felt, what I _wanted_. I craved his touch once, you know. And I would have again, eventually.”

Fenris lowered his hands to hang at his side. “There’s something wrong with me, Hawke. I’m…broken. I think I never wanted to admit that, but I can’t deny it now. You deserve someone whole, someone who can give you everything I never can.”

“You don’t mean that.” There was a low, insistent note to her voice, something begging him to agree with her. That would never do. A woman like Nerys did not beg. That was for those like Fenris.

“I do,” he said quietly, almost happily now that this would finally be done. “I’ve stolen too many years of your life already. I won’t steal any more. I care too much to do that to you.”

Disbelief still painted her face and she stood unmoving. “You don’t mean that,” she said again, but this time there was uncertainty in her voice, doubt that hadn’t been there before.

He smiled slightly. “I’m sorry, Hawke. You should let the others know you’re all right. They’re worried about you.”

“But you’re not.”

“No.” He was terrified for her, actually, but what good would telling her now do? He’d just neatly severed any remaining connection between them. “You’re strong, Hawke. I know you’ll be fine.”

Nerys laughed, short and sharp and bitter, and it stung him, cut him deep. “That makes one of us.” She turned away, fishing a sword from beside the stairs and belting it around her waist. “Tonight was very enlightening, thank you. I won’t disturb you anymore.”

Pushing her way past him, she yanked the door open, hinges screaming in protest at the rough treatment. Stopping on the threshold, she looked back at him once. Then she shook her head and left, slamming the door behind her.

As soon as she was gone, Fenris’s knees gave out and he sank to the floor, one hand clutching at the armor over his heart. _It hurt_ , he realized in mild shock. It actually hurt. Every beat of his heart magnified the pain, and just when it began to fade, the memory of her hurt face or the last look she’d given him would come back and the pain would squeeze his chest like a vice again.

Eventually, he staggered to his feet, blindly making his way up to his room and collapsing on the bed. All the pain and fear he’d had of this very scenario had fled. It didn’t matter anymore, and he could hardly believe that it ever did. All that was here was ghosts—Fenris included—and the sooner they all faded, the better.


	7. Chapter 7

For the next two days, Fenris neither heard nor saw from any of his companions. He did not go to the Hanged Man nor did he seek out Anders for more of the sleeping potions. And no one had approached him or come to his mansion. He should not have been surprised or upset—it was bound to have happened eventually—but he found himself bitter and couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d done something wrong, somehow broken something else through his blundering.

It was time to leave.

If he hadn’t been convinced of that before talking to Nerys, he was now. Talking to her had shown just how harmful his presence was to her, even if he didn’t mean for it to be so. And he ached to know she was so close and so impossibly far from his grasp, that she would always be that far away, the distance between them only growing further as each day passed.

But at least she would be safe there.

Despite his resolve, it had taken him hours to actually enter his room. He would approach the threshold, hesitate and then stalk away. Over and over again he did that, pausing longer and longer at the doorway each time until he finally mustered enough courage to step foot inside the room. Once he did, it became a bit easier, his chest not as tight as he stepped fully into the room. There was nothing here, no ghosts or demons but what lingered in his mind.

Packing should not have taken long. He’d never owned much and his entire life on the run—before Kirkwall, that was—had been comprised of fleeing places quickly, taking only the most basic of necessities with him—armor, sword and what little coin he possessed.

Even now, after nearly seven years in Kirkwall— _seven years_ , he had trouble believing he’d actually stayed that long—he still had very little to his name beside the crumbling husk of the mansion he called his. It should have taken him no more than a handful of minutes to gather the couple sets of spare clothes, basic toiletries and odd sundries.

But instead, he sat on the floor of his room, empty pack in front of him and small pile of belongings to the side. He’d folded and refolded the clothes countless times, dissatisfied with the job he’d done. Items had been put in the pack and then removed because it made no sense to place them in the bottom. Then he’d picked up the books.

It was foolish to take them along. They weighed too much and offered no benefit. But even still, he found himself loath to leave them. He took one in his hands—the first one Nerys had given him, for while he had bookshelves full of books in the mansion, the only tomes he cared about were the ones she had given him—and cradled it gently, running his fingers along the smooth leather and gilt lettering of the cover.

Fenris set the book down, turned away and then snatched it back up. _Why_? Why couldn’t he leave these behind? Why did it feel like he’d rather leave his sword or even an arm behind instead of these, these… _things_ , which were little more than the skins of dead animals and squiggles of ink.

Because deep down, he knew they were more than that. They were green eyes glinting in firelight, smiles and warm laughter, patient lessons and encouragement and wine drunk in celebration of a new skill mastered.

“Going somewhere?”

The words, the _voice_ was so unexpected that Fenris started violently, getting to his feet and turning to face the door in one explosive motion. Nerys stood in the doorway, clad in the same sort of clothing she’d worn the other night. At seeing that, Fenris’s first thought was of anger. Where was her armor? Didn’t she know how dangerous the streets were? It was absurd for her to take such risks, not when she was so important. One lucky strike and—

He noticed her looking at the book still clutched in his hand, and embarrassed, he shoved it behind his back, dropping it onto the clothing. The silence dragged out, and he belatedly realized she was waiting for an answer to her question.

Hesitantly, he nodded. “Yes.”

“I see. Where are you going?” Her face and voice were both tight with anger, and Fenris looked away, unwilling—unable—to face that, feeling sick with the knowledge that he was the cause.

“I don’t…I don’t know,” he said. “Just…away.”

She didn’t respond to that, instead stepping further into the room, glancing pointedly at the pile at Fenris’s feet and then looking through the things strewn across the table where they’d sat so often. Fingering a broken quill, she didn’t look up as she said quietly, “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said the other night.”

“Oh?” He tried to make it sound neutral, like he wasn’t frantic to hear what exactly she’d been thinking about.

Nerys nodded. “Yeah. And after a lot of though, I have to agree.”

When would he learn to stop getting his hopes up, especially when he knew better?

“I realized that I haven’t deserved a lot of what I have,” she continued on, leaning back against the table. “In fact, I’ve been making a list and I thought you might want to hear it.”

Fenris slowly brought his gaze back to focus on Nerys, not wanting to hear what she was going to say, but unable to completely ignore her as she spoke.

“Let’s see. I deserved _not_ to be driven from my home by a Blight,” she began, ticking off each point with a finger. “I deserved to _not_ have to watch my baby brother’s head caved in by an ogre. I most certainly didn’t deserve to live in a squalid hovel in Lowtown for a year, bound in indentured servitude just to gain entrance to a safe haven for my family. I didn’t deserve to lose my baby sister to the Wardens and watch my mother mourn for two lost children and blaming herself for it.” She paused and took a deep breath.

“I _did not deserve_ to see my mother butchered and mutilated by a madman.” Her voice broke on the last words, cracking in the heavy silence of the room. She blinked a bit too quickly and Fenris fought back to urge to comfort her somehow. It was an old wound, one that would never heal, never go away, no matter that she rarely spoke of it or showed her pain.

Nerys drew a deep breath, the sound slightly ragged. “And did I deserve to somehow become the focus of everything wrong in this city? I don’t think so. What did I do deserve the _honor_ of having to save everyone’s asses from the qunari? Of fighting the Arishok in _single combat_? Or mediate between the templars and mages, trying to put out a fire before it consumes us all? I don’t deserve to be roused from my home every time something goes wrong and everyone in this Makerdamned city is too incompetent to deal with it. You’re so concerned with what I should have, are you going to fix all these things that I shouldn’t?”

Pushing off from the table, she came closer until she stood right before him. “And in making that little list, I also realized the things I _do_ deserve, and you will hear them whether you want to or not.” Her eyes blazed brightly, daring him to challenge her.

He didn’t.

“I deserve to have friends,” she said softly. “I deserve to have people loyal to me, who stand by me. I deserve to have people I can count on, who are always there when I need them to be. Who won’t abandon me.”

Fenris flinched at the last bit. That’s what he was doing, wasn’t it? Abandoning her?

“And I deserve to do the same thing in return. I should be able to keep those I care about close and keep close to them in return.”

She took another step closer, putting herself directly in his personal space. She’d always been so careful about that, about not getting too close to him and making him feel uncomfortable.

“You said I deserved someone whole,” she said, very softly now. “You’re wrong. I deserve someone who _loves me_. I deserve to have someone beside me who has _always been there for me_. And I deserve to love someone back in _exactly_ the same way.”

“Don’t,” he choked out because she _couldn’t_ be saying what it seemed like she was. And to hope yet again and have it taken away was too much. “Please.”

“No,” Nerys said. “You will hear this.” Her hands reached out and caught his. Fenris tried to jerk them away, but she tightened her grip, refusing to let go. “None of us are whole, Fenris, not anymore. But that doesn’t change anything—not the way you feel about me or the way I feel about you.”

“It’s different now. It’s not the same.”

“It is,” she insisted.

He tugged harder, needing to be away, but still she refused to let go, callused hands holding onto him like she did her sword and shield in battle. The only thing the action accomplished was to pull her into him. The shock of contact made him back up a step.

“I-I’m not the same,” he stuttered, cringing inside at how desperate he sounded. “Not after…not after that. After _him_. I-I can’t…. You don’t know what he did. I can barely stand myself and you can’t expect me to believe that it doesn’t matter.”

She squeezed his hands more tightly. “I do know what he did, Fenris,” she said in a low voice, pain echoing in every word. “I’m not a fool. You don’t have to speak of it for me to know.”

Her thumbs began running over the back of his hands, soothing little circles that were as gentle over his skin as they were over the lines of lyrium carved in his flesh. “And it doesn’t matter.”

“It does!” he cried, shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut.

Nerys said nothing, waiting for his uneven breathing to slow, for him to look at her again, her thumbs never ceasing their movement.

“If it had been me,” she said once his eyes had opened again, “if I had been the one Danarius had taken, had been the one he hurt, would it have changed the way you feel about me?”

“No!”

“Then why should it change the way I feel about you?” She swallowed hard. Fenris watched her throat bob. “I’ve tried for so long to not push you, to give you the time and space you need. But I’m done with that. I don’t care what it takes, I’m not going to let you run. I’m not going to let you take us away from us.”

Fenris supposed he should have been offended or insulted that she was dictating what he could and could not do, that she presumed to have control over his actions. But all he could focus on was the fact that she _wanted_ him around, wanted him to stay. “Why?” he asked brokenly.

She blinked and the shimmer in her eyes changed. One tear, then another slipped from her eyes to run down her cheeks. Her breath hitched and she smiled. “Because I love you.”

Letting go of one of his hands, Nerys reached up and ran her fingers over his cheek bone. They came back wet, weak candlelight glinting off the moisture covering the tips. “You are so stubborn,” she muttered, affectionately. “And you’re not afraid to let me know. And we yell sometimes and we argue, but I have never once been afraid that you wouldn’t be there when I needed you. When I woke up at home, in bed, with everyone hovering over me and you were gone—”

Her voice broke on a sob and it broke Fenris’s heart. He reached out with his free hand to cup her cheek, to make her look up, feeling the trembling in her body right through his.

“I was so _scared_ ,” she whispered. “I’ve already lost everyone else I love, I can’t lose you, too. I can’t. There won’t be anything left of me.” She covered his hand on her cheek with hers, turning her head so that she could press a kiss to the center of his palm.

Fenris’s heart nearly tripped over itself at the sight of her lips against his skin, eyes closed, tears glittering on black lashes. What wouldn’t he do for this woman? If leaving would hurt her this much, then there was no way he could do it. To go, with the sight of her tearstained face in his mind and her broken, pleading voice in his ears, would be unbearable. But how could they even go back to what they had before, let alone make it something more?

He pulled her closer, sliding his hands around so that she was held gently against his armor, her head tucked into the crook of his shoulder and neck. “I don’t…I want…I want to stay,” he breathed against her hair. “With you. But I don’t…know how.”

“Then we’ll figure it out together,” she murmured, her lips moving against his skin. “Come home with me.”

He pulled back slightly. “Home? I don’t—”

Nerys laid a finger across his lips gently. “In your own room at my house, nothing more. I won’t leave you here in this ruin that belonged to _him_. At least not alone. So if you stay, I stay.”

She reached up and stroked his cheek gently when he hesitated. “Please, Fenris.”

Finally, he nodded, not trusting his voice to speak. Her let go of her carefully, reaching down for the pack that still lay empty on the floor.

“Leave them,” she said behind him. “Forever or just for tonight, but right now, let’s just go home, Fenris.”

Holding out a hand, palm up, she waited. Fenris cast a last glance down at the pile of things—and they were just that, _things_ —and reached down, gently picking up the book and curling it against his chest, before he took her hand and walked beside her out of the mansion.


	8. Chapter 8

Once back at Nerys’s estate, she quietly set up one of the spare bedrooms for him, shooing away Orana and Bodahn when they tried to help her put a clean set of linens on the bed. When Fenris moved to help her, she said nothing, accepting his aid in silence. When they were done, she smoothed the covers one last time and looked at him.

“Have you eaten?”

For a moment he considered lying, just so that she wouldn’t fuss over him. But he couldn’t. Not after what she’d said, not after she’d shed tears for him. For _him_. So he just shook his head, and Nerys nodded once.

“I asked Orana to keep supper waiting, so it should still be warm.” And with that, she stepped from the room and down the stairs toward the dining room without another word.

After another moment of hesitation, Fenris followed, grateful that she wasn’t going to hover over him or badger him into taking care of himself. She _expected_ him to join her, but she didn’t command or order it. And he was fairly certain that if he chose not to, she wouldn’t bear any ill will toward him for it or hold it against him.

There was something profoundly comforting in that.

Dinner was a simple affair, the two of them serving themselves, the food far from rich, but hot, filling, and tasty nonetheless. They didn’t speak much, aside from asking for something, but the silence wasn’t awkward. In between bites, Fenris looked around. He’d eaten meals here before, usually after reading lessons or when Nerys had her friends over, but he’d never really noticed how…empty the dining room seemed. The table was long and there were plenty of chairs, but it was far too much for just two people.

A flash a memory, one of the fragments that often came to him, reminded him of eating around a small, cramped table, plain food—never enough to completely fill their bellies—eaten from simple bowls, but conversation and laughter making it seem like a feast. Family, Fenris knew, a fragment of memory of _his_ family, sharing a meal in the way that all families did. They way Nerys had once done.

He looked over at her surreptitiously. Did she eat here every night? Alone in a room far too big for one person, ghosts of loved ones long gone filling the seats where her family was supposed to be? If he had left, would it have meant another empty seat for her to look at each night?

Fenris felt a surge of grief as he imagined the scene, and pushed back the pity it brought with it. He, of all people, had no reason to pity another, and Nerys was a woman would did not take kindly to it. Sympathy and caring, yes. Pity, no.

When they finished, he helped her carry the dishes into the kitchen. Once the table was cleared, she gestured up the stairs. “I have some letters to write. I’ll be in my study if you need me. Otherwise, the house is yours. Make yourself at home.”

For awhile, he simply explored the house, learning all the places he’d never had occasion to see before. The estate was large and well furnished, but not extravagant or garish. Fenris could see the touches Nerys’s mother had left, Leandra’s refined sense of taste lending everything a quiet elegance.

He wandered by Nerys’s study several times, taking comfort in the sound of her quill scratching against parchment, the way she mumbled and muttered to herself as she wrote, feeling out sentences and phrases before she committed them to paper. Eventually, he moved to his own room, trailed by Nerys’s mabari, Hafter. The hound gave him a long, sad look before Fenris relented and patted the bed next to him, scratching Hafter’s belly to the sound of happy pants and whines.

There was a soft knock on the opened door, and he looked up to see Nerys looking in. “Is he bothering you?”

“No.”

“If he does, just shoo him out. Don’t let the sad eyes fool you.” She smiled warmly at her dog. “It’s late. I’m going to turn in. Do you need anything?”

“No, I am….” The word “fine” caught in his throat. “I require nothing,” he said instead.

Nerys nodded. “You know where to find me if you do. Good night, Fenris.”

“Good night.”

~*~

Fenris did not sleep that night

It wasn’t that the bed was uncomfortable—indeed, it was probably the nicest one he’d ever had—but the thought of sleeping was enough to send him fleeing from the chamber. There was no wine cellar here for him to raid, or at least not one he would allow himself to raid. And there was no Anders with his wonderful little potions. There was only Fenris, stalking through a near silent house like a shade.

He eventually stopped outside of Nerys’s door, settling down to sit against the wall beside it. The door was closed tight, and he could hear nothing through it, but it still brought him a measure of comfort. Hafter flopped down next to him, and they spent the night there. When dawn finally began to lighten the sky outside the windows, and the household began to stir, he dragged himself to his feet and retreated to the safety of his room, where no one would know where he passed the night.

When Nerys saw him the next morning, Fenris couldn’t hide the dark circles around his eyes or the exhaustion etched into the lines of his face. Nerys looked worried and bit her lip, but she didn’t ask or scold, simply inquired how his night was and walked with him to breakfast.

As the day passed, she continued to give him space, though he caught a few concerned glances. They talked a bit, but mostly spent the day quietly going about their business. Something tight in his chest eased and let go. She would not poke or pry or push him. Though he could feel her concern, he didn’t feel as if she were treading lightly around him or coddling him.

By the time night fell, he was utterly exhausted. Four days without rest was extreme, even for him. The urge to sleep was overpowering, weighing down his limbs and making his eyes feel gritty. When he finally made it to his room, he stared balefully down at the bed for long moments before gingerly slipping under the covers.

In the dark and the silence—very different from his mansion, the quiet here feeling _alive_ —he held himself rigid, staring straight up at the ceiling, fists gripping the blanket tightly. And then his body’s desperate need for respite rose up, and he fell into the first natural sleep he’d had for nearly two months.

~*~

_A simple collar was extended to him, and he stared at it. “Put it on, pet,” a soft voice said. He hesitated and line a fire painted itself across his back in shades of agony. He grabbed for the circle of metal and leather, buckling it around his throat with shaking hands. A hand caressed his hair. “Good boy….”_

_~*~_

_He was crouched on the floor, kneeling where’d been left hours ago, body in agony. He was aching for his master to come back, to tell him he could move, to take him up and out of this small, dark room where he could be something instead of nothing…._

_~*~_

_Hands brushed his body, moving him, positioning him. He braced himself against the pain to come, pain still so new and different he hadn’t yet had time to grow used to it. The pain came and he clenched his jaw to keep from crying out, a cry he could not hold back when the pain was joined by pleasure. He stiffened, fought against the pleasure before a cruel laugh sounded behind him and the pleasure grew until it consumed him…._

_~*~_

_He stumbled, tripping over the paved streets of Minrathous as he followed his master. The crowd to either side of him laughed and jeered at his naked body, pointing at his as they mocked his futile escape. He tripped again, his master yanking hard on the length of red silk that connected to his collar. This time he fell to his knees, looking up as his leash was jerked again. Nerys sneered down at him. “Hurry up, little wolf. I’ve already wasted enough time on you.” Getting to his feet, he followed miserably. This was not what he wanted, but better this than…._

~*~

Fenris came awake in an instant, body soaked with cold sweat, heart racing. He had only a moment for the realization to sink in that he was no one’s slave anymore before he became aware that he wasn’t alone in his bed. His instinct to shove them off the bed or shove his fist into their chest was barely held back long enough to see who it was.

Nerys was curled up against his chest, her head tucked below his chin. They were both on their sides, facing each other, and one of her arms was thrown casually over his waist. Surprisingly, his own free arm was curled over her shoulders. He withdrew it carefully. After all her careful maneuvering around him, why would she do _this_ now?

Even in her sleep, she must have sensed that something was wrong, perhaps from the stiffness of his body or the loss of even the slight body heat his arm gave off. She stirred, face scrunching in a frown before she blinked her eyes open sleepily. Then she, too, stiffened as she realized where she was.

“Um…good morning?” she said hesitantly.

“Why are you here?” he demanded harshly, and flinched inside when she flinched at his tone.

She pulled her arm back carefully, folding it against her chest as she sat up. As she did, hair fell down into her eyes, and his fingers twitched with the urge to smooth it away. Nerys shook her head, then ran her fingers through her hair to pull it back into some semblance of order. After a quick look at him, she averted her eyes, slid from the bed to stand beside it—which for some reason made him nervous—and twisted her hands together in front of her.

“You were having nightmares,” she said quietly, a blush crawling up her cheeks. “And I wasn’t sure if I should try waking you up. But you seemed to calm down when I touched you, so I….” She waved a hand weakly over the bed. “This seemed like the best solution. I meant to be gone before you woke. I didn’t realize it would make you angry, I’m sorry.”

Fenris closed his eyes with a deep breath, fragments of the dreams— _nightmares_ —he’d been having coming back to him. She’d meant only to comfort him and he’d reacted as if she had ulterior motives for coming to his bed.

“I’m not angry, just…surprised. I…thank you.”

Her lips quirked slightly. “Then you’re welcome. I’ll see you at breakfast, then.” Padding on bare feet to the door, she slipped out, closing it gently behind her.

When she was gone, Fenris ran his hand over the spot where she had lain, feeling the lingering vestiges of her warmth trapped under the covers. He slid over, seeking out that warmth and pressing his head into the pillow when he realized it smelled like her. He wanted to hold her, press her close, but at the same time he was afraid. He didn’t think he was ready for that kind of…intimacy yet. But there, lying where she had been, wrapped in her warmth and scent, there he felt calm, peaceful, and just a little hopeful.

~*~

When Nerys began returning to her jobs around and outside the city, he accompanied her. There was no discussion about it, she simply told him she was heading out like she always had, and he was ready with his sword and armor when she did. The others didn’t ask, though it seemed to take a great deal of effort for Isabela to hold her tongue, and Anders looked visibly relieved.

Fenris didn’t always sleep every night, choosing to delay it for as long as possible, but it became easier. When he had nightmares—and they happened often—he invariably woke in the middle of the night to find Nerys curled up against him, as if her body could serve as a bulwark against the darkness in his mind. He never woke her when that happened, remaining still so as not to disturb her, pretending to still be asleep until she invariably slipped out in the morning—though with increasing frequency he found himself actually falling back to sleep.

As the weeks passed, he found himself less angry and confused all the time. There were still things that set him off, but his reactions were easier to control, less extreme and paralyzing. He didn’t stiffen when Nerys unconsciously brushed against him as she passed, or offered a joking nudge on the arm.

Being this close to her, around her so much, finally drove home what he’d given up when he’d fled years ago. He could have had _this_ , a life with Nerys when he was a better man, and his fear had cost him that. It wasn’t too late, he was still with her, after all, but he wanted to make up for lost time. He wanted to take her in his arms, have her take him in hers, and _show_ her how much loved her. His body ached with it, and other, much more pleasant dreams began to intersperse his nightmares.

But he was still afraid.

As Fenris lay awake one morning, Nerys spooned against him back to chest, waiting for the moment when she would inevitably wake up and leave, he made a decision. He couldn’t continue to do this to her, trap her in a sort of semi-relationship without giving her anything. He wanted more, and despite his fear, he knew the only way was to move forward through it, and he would do it. For her. So when she stirred and went to pull away, he tightened the arm he had around her, keeping her where she was.

“Don’t go,” he said. “Stay.”

She shifted slightly and then stilled as she felt the ridge of his erection slide into the crevice of her buttocks. Even with the both of them clothed, there was no mistaking the shape or heat of his arousal.

“Fenris?” she questioned. “Are you ready for this?”

“No,” he said honestly. “I’m not, but I won’t deny you what you need.”

Turning so that she could look at his face, she smiled. “I have what I need—you, alive and with me. I don’t need anymore. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“It’s not fair,” he said, voice tight, “that what I want should always come first. What about what you want?”

“What I want can wait.”

Fenris frowned at how easily she put it off, another thought occurring to him. “Do you…still you still want this? Me?”

Nerys sighed and then gave a soft laugh. She took his hand off her belly and slid it down, underneath the loose sleep pants she wore and her smalls. Pressing his hand further down, he felt the springy curls and then the soft folds of her sex. Which were undeniably wet. “Do you even need to ask?” she murmured.

Fenris sucked in a swift, surprised breath. “I’m barely even touching you.”

Laughing again, she said, “You don’t even need to touch me. The sound of your voice alone is about enough to leave me soaked. Maker, since you’ve moved in, I’ve had to change my smalls twice a day. I’ve started washing them myself because I don’t want Orana to ask questions.”

Complete and utter shock rippled through him. Was she serious? He knew all too well how unwanted reactions could be wrested from someone against their will. But he’d never done anything to provoke that, so…she had to be telling the truth, that she desired him, that his presence, his _voice_ was enough to make her want him.

He slid his fingers along her slit, reveling in her sudden gasp, the way she tensed in his arms. Lowering his head, he spoke directly into her ear. “Do you want this?”

“Only if you do,” she breathed.

Stroking her again, letting his fingers slide deeper into her folds, he asked again, “ _Do you want this_?”

“Maker, yes,” she gasped. “Please, Fenris.”

Fenris nodded once, and turned his attention to her pleasure. It had been so long, and he took his time getting to know her again, her shape and texture, what provoked the greatest reactions from her. When she shifted her hips, lifting a leg over his to give him more room, he sank a finger into her, and they both groaned. Fenris snaked his free hand around to cover her mouth. Right now, this was just for him, for them, and he didn’t want anyone else in the household to hear.

Even as his finger began to work in and out of her, she looked at him curiously.

“I want…” he began and then swallowed hard. “I need….”

_I need to be in control._

The words stuck in his throat. How could he give _that_ desire voice? Somehow, she understood that this was what he needed right now, and gently kissed and licked the fingers held over his lips. He hissed at the feel of her clever tongue, and without thinking, slid a finger between her lips to match the one currently buried in her sex. Instantly, she sucked on it, giving the digit the same amount of care and attention she’d once given to his cock.

His hands worked in tandem, stroking and plunging into her, while his thumb flicked and rubbed circles against the firm nub at the seat of her pleasure. Beneath his attentions, she writhed and bucked, stifling her moans and cries against the fingers in her mouth. She couldn’t talk, so she whimpered, tiny, needy sounds that if he hadn’t already been aroused would have surely done the job.

Finally, he granted her release, bearing down with a bit more pressure, and a cry escaped out around his fingers as she stiffened, her inner walls clamping down around his still moving fingers. Fenris held her as she came down from the high of her ecstasy, trembling with the both the force of his unspent desire and the knowledge that whatever else Danarius had done, he hadn’t been able to take this from him.

Slowly, he withdrew his hands, being careful to be gentle, knowing she was likely oversensitive if her reaction was anything to go by. For a few minutes, she simply lay quiescent in his arms, breathing hard. But when he brought his hands to his lips and carefully cleaned it of all of her traces, she moaned again, and reached for him.

Fenris caught her hand before she could do more than brush his length. “No,” he said hoarsely. “Not right now.”

Nerys nodded, turning over so she could press a relatively chaste kiss to his lips. “When you’re ready.”

~*~

It became something of a ritual for them. To any other, it might seem odd that they each went to bed to separate rooms, coming together partway through the night—though with each passing night the time it took for Nerys to come to his bed grew shorter—and remaining there until morning when Fenris would pleasure her to orgasm.

And with each passing night, Fenris grew a bit more confident, at bit more at ease with his own wants. It became harder and harder to focus solely on Nerys, until as he was following her upstairs one night, he knew that it was now or never. Instead of turning down the hallway to his own room, he followed her to her door.

She turned, looking at him with such hope it made his heart hurt. “Fenris?”

“Let me in,” he said quietly, running a hand through her hair to cup the back of her head. “I think I’m ready to come back to you.”

Nerys smiled and wound her arms around his neck to pull him down into a kiss. “Welcome home,” she murmured against his lips. And when they stepped through the door and fell on her— _their_ —bed, shedding clothes without ever losing touch with one another, Fenris knew what it was to have a home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote, folks! Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. :D


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